


Interstellar Pancakes

by Lightning_Strikes_Again



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/M, Lotor Week 2020, Mildly referenced Lotura, crackfic mixed with some angst, mostly compliant with s6 canon, unashamed advertising of breakfast foods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26143612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightning_Strikes_Again/pseuds/Lightning_Strikes_Again
Summary: At the end of their final battle in s6, Princess Allura’s power tosses Emperor Lotor out of the rift. He falls through the universe and crash-lands by a Denny’s restaurant in Roswell, New Mexico, United States...a city known for its history with UFOs and aliens. Slight crackfic, slight canon angst.Written for Lotor Week 2020. General prompt: Scars.
Relationships: Allura/Lotor (Voltron)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 32
Collections: Lotor Week 2020





	Interstellar Pancakes

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender. I also do not own Denny’s or any of the trademarked items as mentioned in this story. All rights belong to their respective owners. Roswell is a real city with a very strong aesthetic surrounding its legends of a UFO landing there in 1947. However, tales of alien stories appear all across the United States, including one from 1961, where a man believed that occupants of a UFO gave him pancakes.

Emperor Lotor of the Galra Empire saw white, his senses distorting as Princess Allura’s power overwhelmed him. The snarl in his throat cut short. His body slammed back hard against the chair. He closed his eyes to protect them from the searing light, baring his fangs. The quintessence surged straight through the whole of the Sincline ship—

—and the next thing he knew, he was barrel-rolling back. The rift around him warped. His ears began to ring.

Sincline’s alarms blared with several warnings.

_Hull destabilization._

_Critical malfunction—critical malfunction—_

And then the white of the world around him flickered with darkness—cloud formations—glimmers of light—

The pressure was too much.

_Critical malfunction._

_Collision course—_

Lotor blacked out before Sincline crashed into the ground.

* * *

Back in the rift, the paladins of Voltron were trembling with the height of battle. The rift raged around them as Keith called out roughly, narrowing his eyes in panic, “Where did Lotor go?”

Princess Allura breathed raggedly through their frequency. Her fingers shook upon the controls of Blue Lion. “I don’t—I don’t know.” She attempted to peer through the smoke and bright white of the rift. “I do not sense him, or the Sincline ships. It’s as if he completely disappeared.”

Lance cut in over the frequency, “Did you fry him into nothing? Somehow?”

Her voice strained, tears raising to her eyes. “That’s not possible. I was just trying to incapacitate him. The Sincline ship was built from the comet ore—it should have been able to physically sustain—”

“—Guys?” Keith called, voice wavering. “I’m not sure _we_ can sustain this much longer. My controls are acting up—I’ve lost left-optic visuals. We need to evacuate now before we get stuck here.”

Allura cried, “But we can’t just leave Lotor. What if he’s still…in here somewhere?”

“He made his choice,” Keith retaliated, voice hardening in pain. “Come on. Let’s move.”

But as the battered Voltron struggled to raise its limbs, Allura gazed about in a flail, reaching out with her hand. She desperately sought to sense for the energy of the corrupted Emperor Lotor of the Galra Empire. For she knew if they could not find him, there would be great consequences…

* * *

Meanwhile, in a desert town called Roswell in New Mexico, United States, a few ball-cap and khaki-pant-wearing guys peeked out from behind a significantly displaced mound of dirt and debris. Their eyes widened at the sight of a large, battered mecha that had crash-landed and slid in the dirt, creating a large, depressed scar in the earth. The mecha now lay sprawled just on the edge of the New Mexico Military Institute Golf Course—and just over where the men had previously been attempting to shoot a hole-in-one.

Somewhere, beneath that mecha, was the crushed remains of a little flag for Hole 9 and a lucky golf ball that was no longer so lucky.

The men grabbed onto their fallen golf clubs, prepared to wield them as weapons. “Dude,” whispered one of them, jaw dropping open. “What the _hell._ ”

The other began to disjointedly grab for his cellphone, which had fallen from his hand at some point during the big crash. His fingers shook as he raised the phone to take pictures, snapping away. “Oh man,” he said, voice tight. “This is like the fourth one this _year.”_

“We’ve never seen a UFO like that,” the first man deadpanned in worry. “This thing—it looks evil.”

The strange mecha’s eyes were still glowing a bright purple, its reptilian face sharp and carrying a grimace. Various mechanisms within it were still whirling down, and the gray metal of the beast glowed with an energy that crackled the sunset air. 

The second man whispered back, still snapping away with pictures, “Okay but, it still crashed on Hole 9. Never had a problem with an alien that crashed on Hole 9.”

“We should be calling the government,” came the sharp hiss of a whisper. “Like, 911.”

“And then they’ll swarm this place and take this alien who knows where. Remember Vek? The purple soldier guy from—” the second man began snapping his fingers, trying to retrigger his memory—“that Galra empire? Crashed here trying to get away from some madman?”

“Yeah, the owner of that antique shop?”

“That one, yeah. Took every last one of us to keep that secret from the FBI agents who showed up snooping around. Still got half his spaceship buried behind my house.” The man lowered his camera. “Different looking, but hell of a business man.”

“Okay, but Vek didn’t land here in something like _that_ ,” the first golfer hissed. “I got bad vibes about this.”

And it was around then that the strange, larger-than-life mecha shifted, and its lights died.

* * *

Within the Sincline mecha, Lotor groaned, blearily opening his eyes to the sight of mostly his own white hair in his face. His slightly burnt fingers shakily fell away from the controls, and he moved to brush back his mattered, sweaty locks. “What is—?”

Awareness—a pure and genuine clarity began to settle over him.

All of the quintessence toxicity within him had faded right off of him with such a crash-landing, leave him with the odd memories of blind rage and spewing hatred at Princess Allura and the paladins.

His head pulsed with a sharp pain, and he groaned again, his face crinkling as his ears drooped. “Oh. What have I done.” He moved to unbuckle his harness, a few of his claws breaking off from stress fractures. “What have I done.”

The bruised and battered emperor leaned forward in the command seat, then—realized he was at an angle, and he fell right off of it, into a plop on the uneven floor of the ruined ship. He groaned again for a time, not daring to fight the laws of gravity. Instead, he leaned his heavy, battered cheek against the cold metal, simply drawing in a ragged breath. His eyes began to water from his confusion with all things—even his orientation in space. 

The mecha was fully offline around him, with several cracks in the visual displays. That suggested he had fallen on a planet with at least breathable air.

And…something else.

Lotor shakily rose up on his elbow, his armor scraping the floor. And then he delicately raised his nose, sniffing, his elfin ears flicking back. Despite the tears in his eyes, a new life came over him. The air around him—if he sifted beyond the scent of burnt metal—was _sweet_.

His tongue pushed against his sharp fangs in sudden want, his mouth watering. His slit pupils suddenly widened to moons at the scent, his yellow sclerae flashing. “Food,” he rasped. “By the stars, food.”

He knew that scent.

He recalled the scent from the odd activities of one Paladin Hunk invading the kitchen of the Galra flagship, cooking up something he had called pancakes. And the taste had been so light and fluffy and so very sweet—

Lotor slammed his claws into the floor, dragging himself forward, pulling himself up onto his knees in the sideways cockpit of his ruined creation. He patted at it in confusion, as if in disbelief that the Sincline ships had in fact transformed. That it was real and perhaps…not entirely of his will, for he had not designed the ships for transformation.

A chill ran up his spine as he grabbed onto a side bar, shakily standing on aching legs. His eyes were still dilated with the scent of food, his instincts and empty stomach driving him to push on and focus on self-sustainment as his top priority.

And so he did, shakily crawling through a port and pressing a button to exit the battered ship.

He climbed out stiffly, fighting with his aching limbs, a warm sunset wind flicking his hair back. And it was there, leaning on his hands and knees atop Sincline, that he spotted significant civilization, including signs with cartoon spaceships and odd-looking humanoid depictions with large eyes.

He’d landed in a large field, but in the very near distance was a collection of buildings and a busy street of human vehicles zooming by.

The sweet smell—the scent of pancakes and more, perhaps even something that was meat—appeared to be wafting from one of the buildings. It bore a sign that said _Denny’s_ , written in a human language.

Earth. He was on Earth.

And suddenly, Lotor’s mouth split in a delight, his white fangs shining in the sunlight, his misty eyes drying in hope. “Ah, the place of pancakes.”

* * *

It was nearing total sundown by the time that various human patrons turned to see a worse-for-wear, armored alien man limp through the front doors. He awkwardly ran his burnt fingers—likely to scar— through his hair, readjusting his armor to look presentable. He glanced about at the other patrons, including a small family whose little son was staring at him with wide eyes, his scrambled eggs falling off of his fork.

And then Lotor moved forward, limping to a table toward the back, raising his chin with a pride that contrasted greatly against his appearance. He gingerly sat down, peering at the others, before realizing there was a menu already resting on the table.

He grabbed for the sleek, brightly colored menu, narrowing his blurry eyes to focus in on the computer-printed text.

A middle-aged woman in an apron appeared, raising a brow. She held a pad of paper and a pen. And she looked him over for a time before saying hesitantly, “Rough night, hun?”

Lotor did not look up from the menu, his velvet voice a rough deadpan. “You have no idea.”

Outside the window, the silhouette of Sincline still loomed, with various pickup trucks and cars circling around it in interest now.

The server hesitated, then added, “Do you drink water? Other things? Looks like you could use a little caffeine.”

That did it. Lotor raised slightly vulnerable eyes, searching her to see if she were trustworthy. The human woman was slightly port with a kind face and gray streaking her curls. “I will accept water, and—” he peered down at the menu, narrowing his eyes— “and this drink here, which is called chocolate milk. That is from your planet’s four-legged animal called a cow, yes?”

“You got it.” The server made a quick note on her paper. “And yeah, the milk comes from cows here. The chocolate doesn’t, though.”

“That is well.” Lotor set down the menu, running his fingers over the smooth texture of the lamination. “I can repay you for your establishment’s services, with ah—” His white brow crinkled. He paused.

He had nothing with him—no possessions besides his own armor. 

The server’s face softened and she said with an amused deadpan, “Honey, if you could survive a crash like what’s out in the golf course, then your meal here is on the house. I’ll be right back with that drink while you decide on what you want to eat. In the meantime, you got a name?”

It was then that within Lotor’s starve-addled mind, he realized that these humans were awfully familiar with him, down to even the term _Honey_ as an apparent human term of endearment. He quirked a brow, turning his palms on the table to reveal his sharp claws. “I am Emperor Lotor of the Galra,” he responded, raising his chin with a strain of pride that faltered. “Or, I was. Perhaps I am not anymore.”

The server’s lips quirked, not a bit intimated by his claws or his fangs or the general reality that he was not of Earth. “Galra, huh? Yeah, we get a few of you who travel through here on occasion. Maybe I can put a call in with Vek, have him get those cuts on you cleaned up while you’re here. He’d know what to do.”

“Vek?” he echoed, voice straining.

“Yeah, owns an antique shop.” She turned away, waving her pad of paper. “Crashed here about a decade ago, says he was running from some Emperor Zarkot or something.”

Lotor’s eyes widened slightly, but he did not bother to correct her, instead in awe and confusion that somehow, this little desert city seemed fairly content with his presence and weren’t at all threatened by the concept of a much larger universe.

* * *

Soon enough, the battered alien was sipping on his chocolate milk through a bendy straw as he reviewed the menu. His index finger slid down the lettering. And then he pulled away, declaring, “I have decided. I shall eat the dish of Moons Over My Hammy, as well as the My Hammy and Cheese Omelet and the Original Grand Slam.” 

The server’s brows flew up, but she did not judge as she wrote down the order, instead asking questions to personalize what he wanted.

Lotor, for the first time in a long while, dared even to relax, leaning back against the booth as he sipped on his chocolate milk and answered the most delightfully harmless questions, such as _how would you like those eggs cooked, hun?_

He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, then added in amusement, not knowing what eggs were, “Surprise me.”

* * *

Meanwhile, on the far side of the universe, one Princess Allura paced unsteadily within her own blue lion, frazzled. “He couldn’t have possibly disintegrated in that blast,” she said to herself, voice tight. She pushed a button on her helmet to activate her frequency with the paladins. “Team, if we cannot find Lotor, then we will have to account for his absence in some way with his people.”

Lance complained, “The guy almost just tried to kill us. What does it matter? We’ll just tell them all what happened. Those generals of his were here too…wherever they went.”

“It’s more complicated than that, Lance.” Her voice hardened in worry and an awful nausea that Lotor had perhaps died. “I wish that he be brought to justice as well, but we can’t do that unless he’s physically here. With us.” Her eyes began to water. She seemed to wish to speak more, but instead she closed her eyes, squeezing them tightly shut. She raised trembling fingers to her lips, where Lotor had once kissed her—just before the uncovering of the great colony conspiracy, and then Hagger activating Shiro’s violence—

There was a pause over the line. “What do you suggest we do, then?” Pidge demanded. She was tiredly munching on a bag of chips. “I can’t locate any of the Sincline ships within a measurable radius. The guy was popping in and out of dimensions so fast, who knows where he ended up. The exit factor from the rift could be totally random.”

“Maybe,” Hunk spoke up, a deep exhaustion in his voice as well, “we can run a simulation using the Castle of Lion’s star maps? Do you think moving out of the rift could based on like, personal preference? Like, an impulse thought, and then you’re there in that other place?” 

Out in space, five lions trailed around each other, with the ruins of planet Daibazaal now sporting several significant craters from the clashing of the mechas. The larger Castle of Lions floated alongside them.

Allura’s voice strained. “I’m not sure—I was focusing very hard to return us to this dimension. I do not understand Lotor’s interdimensional technology, that allowed him to so freely jump back and forth. I would assume he’d be more likely to remain somewhere in _this_ universe. It's possible our own power pushed him out as well. In which case..." 

And then she pressed her hands against the wall of Blue Lion, her breath hitching. “Maybe I can find him in ways our typical radar cannot.”

Hunk then leaned back with a groan. “Ah, man. Gotta love it when magic is the answer to literally everything.”

She closed her eyes, focusing again. She dared to think of Lotor’s face and the warm of his hands as he squeezed her fingers. Warm metal armor. White hair. Purple quintessence—purple quintessence signature—

Her eyes widened. And suddenly, a deep horror overcame her. “Oh, no.”

“What?” Keith demanded.

She sputtered. “Lotor—he’s…he’s on _Earth_. Your Earth.”

* * *

Roughly two hours later, five strange lions landed on the golf course besides the fallen Sincline. And one Princess Allura of Altea burst through the glass door of the Denny’s, shattering it with her armor and raising a blaster, eyes wide. For one wild moment, her own panic and the pounding of her heart blurred her vision. She was expecting mass devastation, blood and death with screaming humans and an insane Lotor—

—But instead, her gaze landed upon a most unusual sight that inspired her jaw to drop and the blaster to falter in her hand. The once-quintessence-overwhelmed Lotor of the Galra Empire sat in a back booth, respecting the dining experience of various other patrons, who stared at Allura and the paladins in something of a great curiosity rather than fear. In the course of a few hours, it appeared Lotor had eaten multiple plates of breakfast, drank seven glasses of chocolate milk, and somehow obtained a t-shirt that he was wearing _over_ his armor, emblazoned with the slogan: _Roswell – A Great Place to Crash_.

If that were not all, Lotor was also not alone. A very tall man in human clothing wearing a straw-brimmed hat was working to place a band-aid over a cut on Lotor’s temple—and it appeared the two were in deep and emotional conversation.

Lotor turned to the sight of Princess Allura, still sipping on his chocolate milk, his eyes glassy with tears. “Ah, princess,” he called to her, voice lilting in a hurt deadpan. “Welcome to Earth. They have doors here.” 

She gaped at him, openly, tears in her eyes. Behind her, the other paladins swept in, bearing blasters of their own. “What in the stars—?”

The man sitting opposite of Lotor turned as well, revealing that his long white braid was not from old age like a human’s—but that he was completely and utterly Galran as well, down to yellow sclerae without pupils. His voice was deep, strained boom. “Are these the Voltron paladins of which you spoke?”

“Oh, yes.” Lotor’s eyes did not leave Allura’s. “But I fear only the princess, as no doubt, she fears me.”

A server walked by, grabbing onto plates and turning to look at the shattered front doors. “What do we got going on here, a standoff?” She seemed largely without self-preservation, eyeing the blasters in the paladins’ hands. “No weapons in this restaurant! If you wanna fight, you’ll have to take it outside.”

Allura fully lowered her weapon, turning to the paladins and silently gesturing that they let her lead. Her eyes burned hard with tears at the sight of Lotor—in a relief that somehow he was still alive, and then in deep pain over their unfinished business regarding his politics. She managed an unsteady laugh, almost a cry. “What are you doing here?”

“I am enjoying the hospitality of a city called Roswell,” he responded. His own watery eyes narrowed. “And before you ask, yes, I am of sound mind in this moment, and yes—I have found one of my own kind, who has so graciously offered to provide me counsel in this time of need.” A pout crinkled his white brows. “Not even chocolate milk and pancakes can undo the pain I feel now, princess. For I remember what I did, and what I said.”

She hesitated, daring to pull off her helmet. A river of white curls slipped down her shoulders. Her lips trembled as she stared at him in total loss.

“Vek owns an antique shop,” Lotor added, voice straining. “It appears that—at least in one small sector of the galaxy—the Galra have lived peacefully among other races. Even without quintessence.”

Vek stood from the booth, looking a bit awkward as he tipped his hat to Allura—then stumbled a bit in remembrance that she was not human, and instead he bowed. “Princess.”

She made a squeaking noise in the back of her throat.

Lotor’s claws ticked against his glass of chocolate milk.

Somewhere in the restaurant, a few human families were requesting more food to justify staying to watch an alien drama unfold. Someone had procured a bag of popcorn to munch on.

Allura turned to Vek, bewildered, her elfin ears flicking back. “Ah, it is nice to meet you,” she strained out. And then she turned back to Lotor, her eyes welling up in tears. Words failed at the tip of her tongue.

Lotor met her gaze, his throat tightening and eyes misting the more he searched her eyes. “I am not causing trouble,” he said slowly.

“But you have,” Allura retorted, brushing at the tears that dared to streak down her cheeks. “You…you hurt so many of my people and even now, take advantage of these good people, who know not how you would abuse them if you saw an advantage from it.”

His jaw clenched. “I do not want to hurt anyone.” His voice strained hard. “And once my ship has power again, I shall assist these fine people in reconstructing the damages of the—” he turned to Vek— “golf course, was it?” Vek nodded. “And then I shall leave.”

Allura’s voice broke. “No, you will return with me to attend trial before the legal representatives of both the Voltron Coalition and the Galra. Any damages in your wake will be paid for by your own empire’s vast riches. And perhaps with such riches, you will be able to afford a lawyer, for you’re going to need one.”

He grimaced. He set his elbow on the table and rubbed his temples. “Oh, Allura.” His voice broke. He began to laugh, his eyes watering with tears. He turned his bruised face to her, in utter loss.

The hardness of her gaze faltered.

It was only hours ago that they had kissed.

Within the great tension of the room, one Paladin Hunk began to sneak by, stealing to a free table, He very primly sat down, drummed his fingers on the table, and then reached for the menu, hiding his face in it. Pidge and Lance followed suit while Keith remained at the doorway, face tight.

“You know,” Keith called, “maybe a Denny’s isn’t the best place to be having this kind of conversation?”

Lotor’s eyes flickered to him. “On the contrary, it _is_ the best place, for now there are many witnesses and families.”

Allura dared to step forward.

Lotor tensed.

Allura hesitated again. Her voice strangled, “I promise I am of sound mind as well. But I feel very deceived by you. And your words that you wish to snuff me from history—they yet ring in my ears.”

The Galran man winced. “Duly noted. They yet ring in mine as well.” And then he sighed, leaning back against the booth, his bruised face shining in the lights. “I agree to attend trial, so that you may see my true character and the details of my past with the colony. But you must understand that if you unseat me from the empire, you will create mass chaos.” His eyes searched hers. “You _know_ my chaos, at least.”

She awkwardly moved closer, grabbing onto a free seat at the table beside his booth. “You suggest that after all of this, you would still accept an alliance with Voltron?”

His eyes lowered. Then he closed them, taking another sip of chocolate milk as if it were the world’s finest alcohol. “Let’s be honest with ourselves, princess.” He opened his eyes, and his gaze was tired. “We are what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. Anything less than a sanctioned alliance will endanger all, including these kind people of Roswell, who are makers of the pancakes and gave me of their wares.” He grabbed onto the hem of the t-shirt over his armor.

Allura swallowed hard. And then a teary laugh escaped her, mixed with frustration. “You look ridiculous.”

“You busted down their door,” he snapped back lightly, raising his chin. “Who is the ridiculous one now, hm?”

She sat down in the seat, her gloved fingers running along the smooth wood of the chair, as if it were her only tether to reality. She looked back at the front door, from which shards of glass hung. And then her face flushed. She raised her hand, biting her lip to move the glass through the use of quintessence.

A few children cooed in awe at the sight of the front repairing itself.

“I thought I was particularly strategic person,” she whispered, voice catching hard, “until I met you. _Everything_ feels so visceral with you.”

Lotor hesitated, and then he tentatively pulled at his latest plate of cinnamon pancakes, which he had mostly failed to eat. He offered it to her as his own peace offering, his eyes vulnerable. “And with you as well, princess. For I have stared into the face of those who sought to enslave and beat me, and none of them ever inspired emotion as I felt upon your rejection.”

Allura’s lips trembled, and she reached out and accepted the plate. “Did you…expect me to be grateful for your hand after your confession?” Her eyes welled. “I felt very manipulated.”

Their fingers brushed, his still carrying burns from their battle.

For a time, they froze there, staring into each other’s eyes.

Lotor’s voice turned with an ache. “I did not want to lose you.”

In the booth on the other side of the room, Hunk leaned over and whispered, “I can’t tell if they’re going to kiss or throw a plate of food at each other.”

Pidge narrowed her eyes. “Ten bucks on the first one. No one in their right mind wastes a good pancake.”

Lance deadpanned, “They’re holding that plate like it’s a baby.”

Allura flinched, suddenly moving the plate toward her, her elfin ears drooping. Her face flushed, and she set the plate down in her lap, brushing tears from her eyes. “I, um…I’m not sure how to move forward.”

“Truly, neither do I.” His voice was dry, amused and weary tone. He held out a clean fork for her. “But I know you must eat. Do try not to stab me.”

The princess’s face still bore the dirt and sweat of their last battle, a bruise on her neck from a harsh blow that had cut her own armor into her. Tired eyes focused on Lotor. She grabbed for the fork and gave him a pained look. “And do not pursue dark endeavors.”

And then, strangely, the two burned royals began to eat together in the midst of that Denny’s, munching slowly on pancakes in the first possible sign that perhaps not all was lost.

Allura ate of the pancakes slowly, her eyes roving over Lotor’s t-shirt covered armor.

“Surely, we can agree at least,” Lotor said, "that cinnamon pancakes are delicious?”

And something in her expression softened. “Yes, I suppose we can agree on that.” And she took a bite from the edge of the pancakes where he’d pieced at it, and she munched hesitantly, her watery eyes meeting his.

Lotor’s eyes lit up, his lips twitching in a tired affection. And then he dared to grab onto his personal fork and spear it into the other side of the cinnamon pancake. Allura watched him, staring at the burn marks that wrapped around his long fingers. They seemed somewhat painful yet. On impulse alone, she reached out, daring to touch his fingers, activating a small thread of her power to heal him.

And the burns faded from an angry violet back into healthy lavender skin. Lotor’s bloodshot eyes widened as he looked at her in surprise.

She pulled away, awkwardly returning to eating the offered pancakes, her face hot in a mix of emotions.

Lotor stared down at his healed hands in awe. He quirked a brow. “Do you attempt to hide Voltron’s violence upon me?”

She munched on the cinnamon pancakes, holding a hand over her mouth, voice muffled, “On the contrary, I will speak of it within your trial, as will many who witnessed it. But there is no reason for you to suffer meanwhile.”

His lips twitched, almost fondly. “I forget how incapable of subterfuge you are.” He leaned his elbow on the table, daring to swipe another piece of the cinnamon pancakes. “Does this mean you will request the presence of all of these people of Roswell, to speak on my behalf?”

Allura hesitated, then said, for the first time, a small glimmer of hilarity in her eyes, “Perhaps we even can pay this place of pancakes to host your trial. So that we may at least have some measure of comfort, within a fairly…neutral space, it seems.”

That did it. For all the sadness in him, Lotor’s lips split fully in delight, his fangs glimmering. “Ah, yes. Finally, a trial I could look forward to. With whipped cream and syrups.”

“And perhaps,” Allura said, voice in a hesitance, “with all facts laid bare and discussed, we might find a way to move beyond it. To hold us all accountable for achieving peace in the…right manner.”

His bloodshot eyes blinked. His throat tightened up. “Yes.”

Behind them, the hull of Sincline still lay in an ugly scar of the earth, surrounded by clods of dirt. Surrounding it were five Voltron lions, peaceably humming in the increasing darkness. They shared of their energy with their fallen kind as the scent of pancakes pleasantly wafted through the air.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, all! Started writing something silly, and then a lil angst plot injected itself in. But it seemed that maybe I could make this fit for the Lotor Week 2020 prompt of "scars" and ran with it on a few levels. Definitely not the most polished thing I've ever written, lol, and a little silly because it all just started with me wanting to imagine Lotor ordering "moons over my hammy," lol...but I figured why not, lol. Please let me know what you think with a review! Thank you for reading!


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